


The Whale-Beast, or Ása's Bane

by LooNEY_DAC



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen, Sea Beasts Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:51:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC
Summary: A treat for this request:
"Thank you in advance for doing this! What I'd like to see is a group of badass (or not so badass) sailors taking on a sea beast, regardless of the circumstances in which they've met (either they were hunting it, or it was hunting them, or they've bumped into each other, or something else completely).
What I wouldn't like to see: an unhappy ending (a la "all humans die" or "only a sole survivor returned"), humans being bastards to each other, crassness.
What I don't mind: cursing, canon characters being present, gore."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aierdome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aierdome/gifts).



> So, hopefully this will push all the right buttons and none of the wrong ones.

Call me Heppni.

I had passed the winter months upon the Øresunbron Base without a berth when first I espied Ása Hardardóttir, the grizzled Captain of an Icelandic Beast-Hunting ship. Being a young man and in the full vigor of my days, I had resolved to seek my fate upon the rolling waters; and, as happened so often in those days and these, the Captain was not one to turn away a willing hand when one was offered. My fluency in Icelandic helped, of course; but I remain convinced were I mute and deaf, my hard work would have yet gained me a berth on her ship.

I must admit to some slight surprise at how the ship was named: she was the good Sea-Beast Hunting Ship _Thorkjeld_ , the only one of her kind: built in Norway; of Danish timbers; crewed in the main by Icelanders; and bearing a Swedish name. Her cosmopolitan nature was belied by the fixity of purpose embodied by her Captain: our voyage was to be no pleasure-cruise; nor were we even a mundane escort for an ordinary shipping run; but instead, we were bound upon a Hunt, and one to the death.

All aboard were immune, of course, and young and eager for the chase, save only our Captain and her mate, one Trond Andersen. This Trond was on loan from the Norwegian Army, and hied himself from a humble hamlet hardily held high behind the fearsome fjords; it was not his first such voyage, though, and he made for a good mate, even as Ása Hardardóttir made for a good Hunting Captain.

Though we set out from the base with hearts high and ready and eager to test our mettle on a Sea-Beast, we encountered none. Through calm and storm we sailed on; the days waxed and waned without our encountering better sport than a turned seal or dolphin--these lesser Sea-Beasts hardly worth turning our hands to slay, though slay them we did, and without even a hint of trouble--and the crew grew morose and angry by turns, our frustration waxing even as did our skills from the Captain’s constant drilling.

It was during a night both quiet and cold that I found myself on watch in the company of the mate, who was known to us all as _this Trond_ , there being certain other and more important Tronds with whom the _Thorkjeld_ had to communicate; and this Trond, usually a man of taciturn turn and grim mien, proved unusually talkative on that watch. Perhaps he wanted only a set of willing ears for his tale; perhaps he thought my knowing would be to the crew’s profit; I cannot say one way or another, and certainly we never remarked on that night’s conversation again. Be that as it may, during the course of that uneventful watch, and under the stars shining bright and cold upon us, Trond told me of our Captain.

The tale this Trond unfolded for me was a sad but not nearly outlandish one in these days of the Rash, and it ran along these general lines: The Icelanders had always depended quite heavily on their fishing fleets to maintain themselves, and with the chaos wreaked upon the rest of the nations by the Rash, the fishing ships became even more important. One such ship was the _Túnfiskurinn_ , captained by the redoubtable Hörður Ásuson, while a young Ása Hardardóttir worked as part of the crew. It was a carefree life for the girl, unshadowed by what was to come: a chance encounter with a Whale-Beast.

The saga of that first struggle between Ása, Hörður and the Whale-Beast is worthy of its own telling (and by a better teller), but suffice it to say that when the rescue ship found the lifeboat with _Túnfiskurinn’s_ survivors, they found among them an orphan with a very nearly crushed chest. Thus was born the hatred Ása Hardardóttir bore for the Whale-Beast; a hatred that burned hotter in her heart as each day passed.

On some ill-starred nights, the badly healed bones and formerly rent flesh would ache so that Ása could only lie in her bunk, barely able to breathe through the pain. It was on these nights that she would prop one arm up as a stand from which to hang her locket, opened at last that she could view the portrait of her dead father tucked within it; and what monomaniacal notions must naturally have arisen for her contemplation but the only logical one: but for that one Rash-begotten Whale-Beast, this torment both physical and mental would not be. For hour upon hour this notion gnawed at her, fueled by her agonies, further cementing her all-consuming hatred for the avatar of all her woes.

When this Trond was finished with his recounting, he grunted, “So now you know,” and moved away. It was only a moment or two later that we were relieved, and so I went below, still pondering in my ponderous way over what I’d heard.

It was another week before we found the first signs of the Whale-Beast’s passage: an Icelandic merchantman, or the sorry remnants of one; both cargo and crew had gone to feed the Whale-Beast’s rapacity. Our Captain showed no outward sign as she surveyed the wreckage, but a tension descended across the crew as we made sail in the Whale-Beast’s wake.

So it was that we stalked the slayer, until the fell tide turned athwart us; for the Whale-Beast waited as we chased it, seething and eager for the fight.

Four long-boats went forth, and battle-top and all our guns were manned and ready--or so we thought. The foremost boat held the Captain, a huge oaken harpoon of the ancient style held at the ready. Trond was in the second boat, swinging around to flank the Whale-Beast, and the other two boats went round to form the noose we meant to draw tight around the Whale-Beast, as per plan.

I did not see how the Whale-Beast accomplished its devilish trick; I only know that between one blink and the next, it had torn the boats behind it asunder, and was slowly moving away from the _Thorkjeld_.

The Whale-Beast dove, and with the dive sent forth a mighty wave. This massive blow had hardly subsided when from below, the Whale-Beast shot into the air, as if to say, “Behold my might and cunning. You only live on through my mercy.” And then it was gone, utterly without trace.

All hands were working long into the night and for many days thereafter, but never once did the Captain intimate that our voyage was at an end. To the contrary; once _Thorkjeld_ was mostly sound again, she had us heading back along the line in which the Whale-Beast had led us; but Trond was not pleased.

Long did Trond put forth his reasons for heading back to shore and safety: half our boats were smashed to kindling, the men aboard saved but by grievous effort; now, the self-same crew were grumbling, telling tales to one another that their captain’s grand obsession could but lead to one conclusion, death for all who stayed to greet it; and on and on in like vein. But the stern figure of the captain, so long fixed on her immutable goal and now so near that goal’s fruition, remained unmoved by the mate’s oration; and when he was done, she spoke thus:

“It _tasks_ me,” Ása did hiss in sibilant censure. “It _tasks_ me, and I shall have it! Aye, and I’ll chase it ‘round the Bothnian Gulf, and ‘round the Scilly Isles, and ‘round _Perdition’s Flames_ before I give it up!”

The bearded man turned back to Ása and spoke in thunder-tones. “I will not tell ye to beware of Trond. But mind that ye beware of Ása.” And with these words, he quit the room.

All our former bravado was gone, swept away by our encounter with the Whale-Beast; but still, we did our duty. Some did it out of the knowledge that this Whale-Beast would be free to wreak its wonted wonton destruction should we fail to end it; some did it because it was their duty to serve, and none could sway them from it; some did it because there was yet no real alternative; but all of us did our duty.

The Whale-Beast was not long in obliging our Captain’s desire for a rematch. Brazenly atop the waters, the Whale-Beast fell upon us at noon, regardless of the light that should have seared at it; and, after a few desultory shots from our guns which the Whale-Beast dodged with ease, we sent out the boats again.

We only had the two boats this time, Trond in the first and Ása in the second, but they pressed on in grim determination; and the Whale-Beast let them come closer and closer--and then it struck.

The first boat was gone in a shower of sea-spray and splinters; yet the second pressed on the harder, Ása Hardardóttir standing proud at its bow like a figurehead of steel, and from that bow, she poured defiance at her nemesis. “O! Roll on, ye devourer, ye all-consuming slayer! for here is come your Doom!” The thunderous trumpeting of the Whale-Beast drowned out what more she had to say for many minutes. But we could see her and the others in the boat lashing out at the Whale-Beast with any weapon they could lay hands upon.

At last, the Whale-Beast seemed to flag, but our Captain pressed on undaunted. “From Hel’s heart, I stab at ye! For hate’s sake, I spit my last breath at ye!” And with these words, Ása and the Whale-Beast vanished in a churning cloud of white and red and sickly grey.

At last, the mist of spray and gore abated, and from the battered battle-top of the _Thorkjeld_ we beheld the tautly held and triumphant form of our Captain; and the Whale-Beast was in tatters at last.

**Author's Note:**

> …And yes, I cribbed extensively from _Moby-Dick_.


End file.
